


Bleeding Out

by LogicalBookThief



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Badass!Ford, Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Protectiveness, Shapeshifter feelings, and Badass!Stan too, at least they hug it out, emphasis on the hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 09:46:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4662066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone in the woods, Stan comes across the Shapeshifter, who’s looking to “destroy Stanford Pines.” Naturally, he pretends to be his brother, because that’s worked so well in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Out

**Author's Note:**

> For a request on tumblr, which basically asked for a hurt/exhausted Stan collapsing in front of Ford after a run-in with the supernatural. Here's a link: http://logicalbookthief.tumblr.com/post/126540957389/bleeding-out
> 
> Protective!Ford and Hurt!Stan is my jam, so yeah, please enjoy!

For all the grief he gave the kids about exploring the woods without a care for the dangers lurking within, Stan was remarkably bad at taking his own advice.

In his defense, he hadn’t run into the forest without a care, and he definitely hadn’t gone _looking_ for trouble. Trouble just had an irritating habit of finding him, thank you very much.

And in this case, trouble took the form of the weird mysterious beast - kinda snake-shaped, bit with horns, and a jaw that could swallow a man whole - currently staring him down, nostrils flaring. Stan wondered if he smelled like _food._

“What do you want, ugly?” False bravado, he found, worked well enough with any animal, paranormal or otherwise.

Truth be told, he wasn’t expecting an answer. Which made it all the more perturbing when he received one, anyway.

“I’m looking for Stanford Pinesss,” the creature informed in a long, drawn-out hiss.

Stan froze, an image of his brother springing to mind. As they spoke, Ford was unassumingly tinkering in the basement, unaware of the monster prowling for his location.

“Well, you found him,” said Stan with confidence, as only a professional liar could. Give him short notice and he could devise a story on spot as quick as any conman. He and Ford looked enough alike that it wasn’t too unbelievable even. “So I ask again: Whaddya want?”

“I’ve come,” the snake-thing, only it _wasn’t_ a snake anymore, it was - _morphing_ into something else, large and hairy and goblin-like, “to destroy Stanford Pines.”

“Holy Moses!” Stan exclaimed, diving to avoid a sweep of the creature’s burly arm. “W-What the hell are you?!”

“Anything I want to be,” it demonstrated, skin fluctuating, altering into the shape of a nearby shrub before returning to its previous form, simple as a person would blink. “I _can_ be.”

“Guess you had some really supportive parents,” Stan observed dryly, ducking behind a broad oak. “Can’t say the same.”

 _Of all the freakin’ enemies to make, Sixer, you manage to piss off a Shapeshifter._ He glanced to and fro, searching for something that might help. There was a wilting branch to his left; it was thin, unlikely to do much damage. Stan ripped it off, the crunch of bark alerting the thing to his hiding spot, but that’s what he wanted.

“Foolish human, wasting your breath,” the Shifter rumbled. “I won’t be distracted by your idle prattle.”

“No?” Stan grinned cockily. “Too bad. You seem like a good listener.”

He waited ‘til the thing was right aside of him, a mere foot away, before jabbing the stick at its cranium, piercing the flesh of its ear - the Shifter _yowled._

Life on the streets had taught him plenty about fighting dirty. _Always aim for the eyes, the ears; always a soft, weak point._

With the Shifter distracted, Stan saw his chance. He broke into a sprint, resisting the urge to turn back and see if the thing was following, which in his experience was _never_ a bright idea. All he had to do was focus on escaping, outrun it and reach the Shack, where he could at least find some sort of weapon.

And for all of five minutes, everything went according to plan. The Shack was within sight when a massive weight rammed into him, knocking him off his feet and the wind straight out of him.

He must have flown a good seven feet before he landed in a heap on the ground, crashing into the outhouse on his way down. He gazed up, dazed, at the new form the Shifter had taken, recognizing it as something Dipper had mentioned once - a manotaur, maybe, or something similarly outrageous.

“Shit,” Stan groaned because _ow,_ that had stung. He would be feeling that for weeks, no doubt.

Unfortunately, not only did the manotaur’s blow pack a punch, it made a lotta ruckus that nobody in the near vicinity could ignore. He hoped against hope that Ford was still in the basement, where the noise couldn’t penetrate, tweaking one of his nerd projects. But when was Stan ever that lucky?

Eventually, without fail, he heard his brother’s voice, muffled and distant, calling out his name. “Stan? Is that you?”

 _Damn it, Poindexter,_ he cursed, stumbling to his feet. _Don’t get in the way of me trying to save your sorry ass!_

Perking its head, the Shifter must’ve heard, too. “Ah, finally,” it stated, pleased, throwing Stan through a loop.

“Wait, what?” he coughed, his chest aching.

The Shifter chuckled, seamlessly morphing into a copy of his brother, thirty years younger. Then its gelatinous skin rippled, and it was a perfect rendition of Stan as he’d been as a teenager, like something out of an old photograph. “Oh, I knew it was you all along, Stan _ley_.”

It changed again, shifting into some unfamiliar creature, dark and vaguely resembling a hard-shelled insect with long, sharp appendages for arms, while Stan stared on, utterly perplexed.

“Then what was the _point_ of all this?”

Perhaps he was too banged up to fully comprehend the danger of the situation, but at that moment, he couldn’t focus on anything except the absurdity of it all. If Ford was its target, and Stan’s lie hadn’t fooled the it for a second, their entire cat-and-mouse seemed like a senseless endeavor.

“I told you already,” the Shifter answered, a patient teacher correcting an inattentive student. “To _destroy_ Stanford Pines.”

“How-” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Ford rounding the corner of the house, and despite his annoyance, Stan inadvertently sagged with relief. He opened his mouth to warn his brother, to tell him of the creature’s true intentions, but suddenly there were no words, the breath stolen from his lungs.

Stan looked down, stunned by the tip of a black appendage protruding from his body, sticky with blood. The shock cascaded over everything else, the background faded into static, indecipherable white noise. There was pressure, something sliding from his body with a sick, slick sound and then the planet was swaying on its axis.

“STANLEY!” Ford screamed frantically, breaking the barrier between the shock and reality; and _oh,_ Stan though, as his knees collapsed and his body slumped, the world spiraling as he fell into his brother’s arms. _Now_ it made sense.

He clutched onto his brother’s shirt, clinging instinctively, as Ford wrapped an arm around his shoulders, keeping him upright. The other went to the gaping hole on his back, strong six-fingered grip squeezing, causing Stan to emit a loud, inhuman keen as the dam of shock splintered, allowing the pain to flow freely. He _knew_ , somewhere in his subconscious, that it was necessary to staunch the blood. Nevertheless, it _hurt_ like hell.

“Ford,” he croaked, the agony starting to pervade his voice, spreading from the center of the wound.

“Stay with me, Stan,” Ford rasped, the words whooshing against his ear. “I’ve got you. Just hang on, please.”

 _Easier said than done_ , Stan grumbled, using his free hand to cover the exit wound on his front, gritting his teeth as warm liquid seeped over his palm.

“Aches, doesn’t it?” the Shifter laughed derisively, and from his vantage, Stan couldn’t tell at whom the comment was directed. “Having something so precious taken from you so simply?”

 _“Monster,”_ Ford snarled, trembling with rage. Stan shivered at the force of it. He had never heard his brother this angry, not even after he ruined his science fair project. “How in the hell did you escape the bunker?”

“Those gravity anomalies shattered my cage, aiding my escape. And somehow, I knew they meant you had returned from wherever you’ve spent the last three decades. So I bided my time, waited for the perfect opportunity to exact my revenge. And what a better to do it than killing your brother before your very eyes?”

Furious, Ford lashed out, “You would slay an innocent for the sake of some _petty_ vengeance-”

 _“You left in that chamber to rot!”_ the Shifter screeched, and maybe it was just the dizziness, yet Stan swore he felt the whiplash of every emotion behind it.

His brother’s body went rigid against his. “You were unstable,” he said tightly. “Your abilities were too dangerous to let you roam unchecked. I did what I had to.”

“Then why not destroy me, put me out of misery?” the Shifter spat. There was a definite note of bitterness in its tone.

“You were the only known member of your species,” Ford disclosed temperately. “Eradicating you could have meant the extinction of your kind.”

“So in the name of _science_ and _compassion,_ you locked me away,” the Shifter sneered, as if the answer didn’t satisfy. “Given recent events, have you come to regret that fateful decision?”

“What I did with you was a mistake,” Ford admitted gravely. “One that I do not intend to repeat.”

He removed his arm from Stan’s shoulders, leaving him to stand on his own waning strength, and even turned away Stan knew he was aiming his interdimensional gun at the creature.

“Oh, you won’t be given the chance,” the Shifter declared. “I came here with a purpose, Dr. Pines, and I shall see it done. So you can wait your turn and watch as your brother breathes his last.”

It must have lunged, based on the stiffening of Ford’s back, and Stan cringed into his brother’s shirt, unable to move, except to brace for an attack - that never came.

There was a pause, a calm before the storm, and then a carefully calculated  _zap,_ singing, smoldering flash of sound that heralded a terrible, gurgling shriek followed by another _zap,_ and finally, absolute silence.

“Do NOT touch him,” Ford seethed, stone-cold.

Stan might have appreciated the sentiment more, were he not busy losing his grip on balance, the earth growing closer with every second. He could hear his pulse thrumming through his bones, see the black dots at the edge his vision, and it was like being on a swing, soaring through the air, except ultimately he had to come down, slowly, sinking towards the darkness below…

 _“Stanley.”_ His name. Yes, that was his name. “Hey, look at me.” An insistent tap on his cheek, yanking him into the present. Stan’s eyelids fluttered. “Don’t you _dare_ , Stanley.”

“Bossy,” mumbled Stan, yelping as the pressure on his wound increased. “Ungh, _sonovabitch!”_

“Shh,” Ford hushed, apologetically. While he was drifting, his brother had moved him into a sitting position, supporting him with an arm around his back. At this angle, Stan could finally see his brother’s face, along with the wretched expression etched upon it. “I’m _sorry,_ Stan. I’m so sorry…”

 _For what?_ Stan almost dredged up the energy to ask, only to be interrupted by approaching footsteps.

“Mr. Pines, what - _oh my God, what happened?!”_ Wendy. That was Wendy’s voice. Right. She was supposed to come by today, although he couldn’t recall the reason why.

“Call an ambulance!” Ford ordered, efficient as a drill-sergeant. “Tell them to hurry. And bring me something to stop the bleeding!”

“That thing,” Stan began after she ran off, wincing at how weak he sounded.

“Don’t worry,” Ford soothed. “It won’t harm you - or anyone - ever again.”

“Y-You think it was lonely?”

 _“What?”_ Now his brother stared at him like he’d grown an extra head, probably concerned he’d lost too much blood.

“'Cause thirty years alone…” Stan murmured, mostly to himself. “…i-it ain’t fun, lemme tell ya.” He wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. Damn blood loss, makin’ me empathize with my murderer.”

“You are _not_ dead yet,” Ford proclaimed sharply. “You hear me, Stanley? C'mon, I need you to hang on a little longer. I need you to _fight.”_

“Don’t know if I can…” he whispered earnestly. Every bit of him felt heavy, and he was already halfway over the ledge, it would be so _easy_ to let go, slip the rest of the way…peaceful, really. And didn’t he deserve at least a taste of peace, after everything?

“Hey,” said Ford quietly, and there was something hoarse and honest behind it, that made Stan pay attention. His brother grasped his hand and squeezed it with all his might. “You’re not alone now. I’m right here.”

Unspoken, what he meant was, _I’m not going anywhere._

“Fight,” Stan muttered, pensive. He thought of boxing rings and surviving on the streets, of late nights learning physics and later nights battling an incomprehensible machine. He thought of Dipper and Mabel, Soos and Wendy, and even that damn pig. He thought of Ford, right next to him, not going anywhere, offering to fight by his side.

Stan managed a small, battered smile. “Y-Yeah, okay. I can do that.”

And he squeezed his brother’s hand back, a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> The end is a little ambiguous, I know, but fear not: I DIDN'T KILL THE GRUNK. I did, however, make him empathize with the Shapeshifter over their abandonment issues. Huh.


End file.
